We are then introduced to Hirst's personal assistants, who instantly rather dislike Spooner, perhaps because he may represent a threat to their comfortable life. The shabby older man is then locked up in a drawing room for the night when the host topples over one too many times and crawls off to bed.
Act 2 begins the next morning, all is forgiven but a sense of menace lingers and the two elderly men verbally spar over past sexual conquests. Here again, it's not clear who is playing with whom. Spooner, seeing a chance for a better life, then begs for a job. It comes to nothing. Curtain.
A nightmarish swamp of a play, each man in it seems to spin in their own orbit stuck in their own no man's land, which we are told, "remains forever icy and silent."
McKellen's Spooner is an overly voluble, romantic lush with a moocher's heart, wearing a worn suit and dirty white canvas shoes. He's a once proud man now deflated into a soft-shoed jester, yet still trying to keep up appearances. He inadvertently cradles a booze bottle like an infant, plays magic tricks and is a pro at insincerity. McKellen is a wonder.
Stewart plays the more reticent Hirst as an unsteady, hard-boiled drunk, surrounded by ghosts. He sits in his leather chair stiffly as if it were a throne, his movements unsure as his mind crumbles. Stewart is marvelous.
If the two leads in "No Man's Land" are destined to never bond, the ones in "Waiting for Godot" will never be apart.
Beckett's absurdist play written shortly after World War II is the better known two elderly Chaplin-esque fools called Vladimir and Estragon linger near a denuded tree on a bombed-out landscape waiting in vain for a man called Godot. Why is unclear. They amuse each other. They debate whether or not to hang themselves. They eat turnips.
As they wait, they meet another pair of eccentric travelers Pozzo, a giant squire of a man, who is controlling a baggage-burdened, nearly-silent servant called Lucky by the end of a rope. Hensley uses a strong Dixie drawl as Pozzo, which makes the master-slave allusion even more uncomfortable. Crudup's strange rambling soliloquy is a marvel.
McKellen as Estragon is hysterically dim while Stewart's Vladimir is more of a hand-wringer. Their comfort with each other and the roles Mathias directed them in a "Godot" in London in 2009 is a wonder to watch: They laugh and bicker and reconcile like old friends or lovers, each settled into a comforting rhythm. They even have a soft-show shuffle with bowler hats that will make you cheer.
Like the actors, Stephen Brimson Lewis does double duty with both sets and costumes. He creates a cold but elegant semicircle of a stately study for the Pinter play and a post-apocalyptic hell for the Beckett, complete with gaping holes in the wooden slats and crumbling ruins. If you look carefully, Lewis has connected the two by including frayed edges and unfinished elements in the corners of the set for "No Man's Land."
If "No Man's Land" seems to be a meditation on the elusive quality of memory and truth, "Waiting for Godot" has already plowed similar ground. Beckett also explores defective recollections, dreams that torment, the past as a refuge, time as opaque and a play where "nothing happens." No one can leave either play, too, as characters in both complain.
"Let us not waste our time in idle discourse!" Vladimir says to his companion. But idle discourse intriguing moments, nonetheless, and wonderfully acted is all that we really have.
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